States of Grace by Mandy Miller (great novels of all time .TXT) 📗

Marcus shrugs.

I give an exaggerated wink. “Don’t be coy with me, my friend.”

“And don’t put me in a bad spot. I take the confidentiality obligations very seriously. There’s only so much I can say about certain things. Same as you. I mean, if I asked, did she do it, even if she’d told you she had, you wouldn’t tell me, would you?”

I look at my hands. “No, I would not.”

The waiter places Marcus’s steak in front of him with a flourish and flings my burger in the general direction of my place mat.

“Angry queen,” I say, sticking my tongue out the moment the waiter’s back is turned.

Marcus chokes on his water. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

I stick my tongue out at him too and he raises his hands in surrender.

“Let’s do Trial Prep 101. What do you do when you get a witness list from the State?”

“Okay, I’ll play along, but this riddle better have a solution. First, I check out the witnesses’ backgrounds, see if they’ve ever been arrested, convicted, whatever. Where they live, work…I don’t know.”

“Go on,” he says, making a churning motion with his right hand. “Look, take off those myopic prosecutor glasses that see the defendant as Satan and the victim as a saint.”

“Pretty please. Give me a hint. Just an itty-bitty one. Nothing that would compromise you, but, maybe a crumb for old times’ sake?”

Marcus puffs out his cheeks and expels the air in a rush. “Okay. Let me make it simple, and this is the last I’m going to say on the topic. Someone is never on the witness list in a murder case.”

I shrug, palms up.

Marcus throws his arms in the air. “I give up. Give it some thought. I have faith in you. But in the meantime, let’s enjoy our dinner like the old friends we are.”

“Who you calling old?” I point an accusatory finger and he points one right back. “We made a great team, Grace. And don’t you ever forget it. You may be playing for the other team now, but you will always be the same person in my book.”

“Thanks.”

Cheering erupts from the bar.

“The Dolphins must be winning,” I say.

“The ’Fins are a lost cause. They may be cheering now, but they’ll be crying later,” he says with a shake of his head.

“Yeah, tell me about lost causes.”

***

After leaving Marcus at the bar making small talk with a male hair stylist from Coral Springs, I retrieve Miranda from Vinnie’s place, where he’s teaching her to fetch beer from the fridge, one trick I hope she fails to perfect.

Now, she’s sprawled on the floor, getting the sleep I desperately need.

Page by page, I review the discovery.

Nothing.

“What am I missing? I already aware I’m missing an alibi witness because, as my luck would have it, Zoe doesn’t have one because she slept late and was alone while doing it.”

Miranda raises her head.

“But what else?”

Miranda hops up and rests her shiny snout on my stump, eyes fixed on the laptop screen.

“How can I find something that isn’t here? What did Marcus mean with his cryptic comments?”

On the verge of abandoning the search, I freeze, mouse hovering over the file labeled, Autopsy Photographs. Victim, Brandon Sinclair, DOB 4/23/1974.

“The victim! The murder victim’s name is never on the witness list.”

Miranda’s opens one eye.

“Why you might ask? Because, my furry friend, the victim is dead. And dead men can’t tell tales.” I close the laptop. “But nosy defense lawyers can.”

Chapter 21

The doors don’t open until 7:30 a.m., but I’m first in line, shifting from foot to foot, like a racehorse in the starting gate. Actually, I’m the only person in line outside the courthouse, but I’m on a mission. The answer to Marcus’s riddle lies in Sinclair’s past. He might be six feet under, but whatever official records exist on him may have a story to tell.

I pop a stick of gum into my mouth to keep from grinding my teeth. I wanted to bring Miranda along as a calming influence, but an enormous wolf dog, no matter how tame, is not exactly the way to fly under the radar. This mission is one which requires stealth, not to mention luck. Any inkling I may be onto something to help Zoe, and the State will find a way to turn the screws even more. That’s how the system works. The strong get stronger and the weak perish under the government’s heel.

Two people fall in line behind me. A mother and son. First timers for juvenile court is my guess. I give mom a quick study. Jaw clenched, eyes boring holes into her boy who is squirming inside navy-blue polyester. It may be a new suit, but his is an old story. Next time, and there will be a next time, mom won’t be able to convince him to wear a suit, and he’ll be looking her straight in the eye, his contempt the only defense he’ll have.

Deputy Brian unbolts the Attorney’s door at 7:30 a.m. sharp. At least I remembered this one’s name.

“The early worm better watch out for Ms. Locke. She looks to be on a quest for justice,” he says, placing my briefcase into the scanner.

He points at my leg. “Best if you come around this way,” he says, guiding me around the side of the metal detector. “Too early to get the natives all twitchy with alarms and such.”

“Thanks, Deputy Brian. Much appreciated. But how’d you know?” I ask, pointing down at Oscar.

“Word gets around here fast as clap on a…You know what I mean.”

“Roger that.”

He hands back my briefcase. “Now, you have a great day, Ms. Locke.”

“There are things in our control and things that are not, Deputy. But I’ll give it a try.”

I head for the offices of the Clerk of the Court on the first floor, a rat trap of a place prone to flooding in the most timid of storms. Last year, the Sun Sentinel ran a picture of clerks in rain boots